Feeling the feels and telling it as it is

This is me. Purely and completely. Raw and unedited. Beautiful and perfect, because inperfection is also perfect. My thoughts are my own, I do not wish to convert you to anything. If you think what I have to say is rubbish, you are free to leave the site. If it moves you in any way, feel free to stay.

This is me. Purely and completely. Raw and unedited. Beautiful and perfect, because inperfection is also perfect. My thoughts are my own, I do not wish to convert you to anything. If you think what I have to say is rubbish, you are free to leave the site. If it moves you in any way, feel free to stay.

Archaeology of the soul

Looking inward is like dusting off layers and layers of mental noise and dust with a soft brush, working my way ever further down through the traces of lives lived until I finally can unearth the pieces of the clay pot that is me. I keep brushing, slowly, until I have removed all the last remnants of sand and dirt, and the broken pieces lay before me, clean and clear and ready to be put back together.

The puzzle of reassembling that which is broken is the next natural step in the process, but something stops me from doing so. Was there a reason for breaking the pot in the first place? Did it break because it had fulfilled it’s purpose? I realise that breaking the pot didn’t truly break it, it just altered it’s form. All the pieces are now new entities, new shapes, which in themselves are perfect. The clay pot was perfect, and now the pieces are perfect. In fact, they are liberated, they no longer have to fit together to create the vessel. They are free to become new things, to serve new purposes.

Digging through the layers

I’m not sure I want to put the broken clay pot back together, but rather keep digging through the layers of dead trees, burnt wood, floods and droughts, old latrines and more broken pots. I want to keep digging until I find that tiny little speck of gold, so small that it’s almost missed. That tiny little piece that answers all the questions to the rest of the excavation, the Rosetta Stone to my soul. That is my goal, that is the prize, and the prize is understanding that all the other stuff is irrelevant. All the pain and all the joy is just packaging. But if it’s just packaging, what is then the reason for existence? Why am I here? To experience it?

Awakening is rendering the question void. Awakening is being able to laugh at suffering.

And do you want to know the paradox? I know this to be the truth. I know it in my soul of souls, but until I feel it, until I experience it, I am nothing more than an academic. Until I feel it in every way imaginable, awakening is nothing more than an intellectual concept.